Occasion of Revenge (22 page)

Trying to look nonchalant but quaking in my shoes, I stepped up on the tiny porch. What if the door was locked? In that case, I decided, I
would
call the police. I grasped the knob on the front door and turned. To my delight, the door swung open. I promised myself I would ask Emily later about how she managed it, but right then, the only thing that concerned me was getting myself inside LouElla’s house.

I stepped into a dark entrance hall and closed the door behind me. I took a deep breath and held it, listening as the silence deepened around me. To my left was the familiar living room; to my right, a small office.
Emily had said that the music seemed to have been coming from the second floor, so I looked around for a stairway, but didn’t immediately see one.

Just ahead of me a large green plant blocked a door that could have led to a staircase. Using both hands, I knelt and muscled the plant aside, shoving it the final few inches with my foot. I opened the door to reveal a yellow raincoat, a blue Polartec jacket, and a red parka with a fur collar that might once have belonged to LouElla’s son, all heavy with the odor of mothballs. Definitely a closet.

I closed the door, carefully replaced the plant, straightened my spine, and shouted, “Daddy!” I listened, straining my ears, but the house was as quiet as a funeral parlor. Feeling guilty, I tiptoed into the office that, from its proximity to the kitchen, might once have served as a dining room. A small wooden desk sat in an alcove formed by a bay window. I imagined LouElla sitting there in the hard, straight, ladder-back chair, writing letters to the editor of the Chestertown
Gazette
or to her congressman. I stood in front of her desk and peeked out the window.

LouElla’s house had been built at the intersection of two lanes. From this spot, she had a clear view of everything going on in her neighborhood; no one coming up Court Street ahead of me or down Church Alley to the left would escape her notice.

On top of the desk in front of me lay a record book of some kind, bound in black with red leather trim and held open by rubber bands. It lay open to a new page, at the head of which today’s date, December 27, was written in bold capital letters. LouElla had recorded today’s observations: the temperature that morning at
six
A.M.
, 31 degrees; and 0723, the time the sun rose. LouElla’s newspaper had been delivered at 0645 precisely. As I browsed down the entries I mused that Chestertown’s lawyers better not try any creative billing. LouElla had their comings and goings well documented—P.L., whoever he was, had come to work at 0905 and left precisely at 1023. I noticed he came back again at 1100, probably after a coffee break. The book was nearly full, so I slipped off the rubber bands and turned quickly to the front where events as far back as last summer were recorded. In addition to the weather and temperature, other odd notations at the top of each page caught my eye: 23jb on July 10, 18jb on the eleventh. LouElla collected minutiae. Fascinating, if you had the key.

I closed the logbook and slipped the rubber bands back in place, hoping LouElla didn’t pay as much attention to how she left her papers as she did to the sunset. I turned away and began searching the rest of the house, but as quietly as I tried to move, my own footsteps were deafening as I made my way from LouElla’s office toward her kitchen. There had to be a staircase around here somewhere!

I paused in the hallway, considering my next move. Could this be one of those old houses where the staircase pulls out of the ceiling? I walked, head tipped back at a painful angle, checking the hallway and likely spots in the kitchen, but there was nothing overhead but plain white ceiling.

I bumped into a counter. On it, a Crock-Pot simmered. I lifted the lid and sniffed. Beef stew. Nearby, two loaves of bread had been left to rise, covered with a checkered dish towel. My stomach rumbled.

Why was I tiptoeing about? Emily could keep LouElla
busy for hours and hours. “Daddy!” I called again. I stopped, not breathing, praying for a response. I tried calling a little louder. “Daddy! It’s Hannah!” My voice sounded muffled, as if I were shouting into a padded box. There was no response but the sound of the furnace roaring to life.

I began methodically opening doors. The pantry door I recognized; next to it, a door led to a dry, dusty basement. To the right of the stove, there was another door.
Bingo!
Feeling half jubilant and half foolish, I peered up a stairway into the dark.

The staircase was steep with walls on both sides. I felt around for a light switch, and nearly cheered when a single bulb in a cheap glass globe cast a shadowy light from directly above me.

I took two steps and called again. “Daddy!” I crept up, placing each foot carefully on the uncarpeted treads, not that there was anybody to hear me. I was now certain that Emily’s imagination had gotten the better of her. Maybe Thomas Hampson wasn’t singing alone; maybe it was that other CD she heard, the one where he sings duets with Jerry Hadley. I paused and leaned against the wall, vowing that if I got out of this house alive, I’d make Emily swear that this breaking and entering would be our little secret.

At the top of the stairs, the late afternoon sun strained to penetrate the gloom of the hall through a narrow slit in a pair of dark velvet drapes. Doors lay to my right and to my left.

I eased open the door on my left and entered a pleasant bedroom decorated with rose trellis wallpaper. A cream-colored rug and dark plum draperies complemented a pink bedspread; lavender throw cushions had been propped against the headboard. At the foot of the
bed sat an oversized laundry basket that had been lined with a pink quilt. I smiled, warming up to this odd woman who took such good care of an orphaned dog. A small bathroom adjoined the bedroom. I peeked in. I honestly didn’t know you could buy porcelain in that color: a bathtub, sink, and toilet, all in lavender, harmonized with the purples in a Monet water lilies shower curtain. I slid open the door to the medicine cabinet and glanced in quickly. Advil, Scope, nail polish remover, Band-Aids, deodorant, bleaching cream, a fiber laxative, tiny paper cups—nothing remotely resembling clonidine.

Feeling uncomfortably like a voyeur, I backed out of LouElla’s room and, with no great expectations, tried the door across the hall. Surprisingly, it was locked. I put my ear to the panel and listened. Nothing. “Daddy!” I shouted. I banged on the door with my fist. “Daddy! Are you in there?”

I stood outside the door considering my next move. I remembered what Virginia had told me about LouElla’s son. This must have been Sammy’s room. Maybe she’d kept it just the way it was the day he died, the painful memories locked away behind this door.

I struck the door with my fist, almost in frustration. Locks were always an interesting challenge; should I have a go at picking this one? I had already started downstairs to assemble some makeshift tools when, thinking it was my imagination, I heard creaking, like bed springs. “Daddy?”

There was a thud, and then silence. “Daddy? Is that you?”

A voice, hoarse and slightly groggy as if trying out its vocal chords the first thing in the morning, croaked, “Hannah?”

Ohmygawd!
I began pounding on the door. “Yes, it’s me! Open the door!”

I waited, my ear pressed to the wooden panel. The next time Daddy spoke, it was directly from the other side of the door. “I can’t. It’s secured.”

Secured? LouElla had locked Daddy in!
I put my eye to the keyhole but was blinded by sunlight hitting my eye like a laser beam. I blinked and stood up. “Do you have a key?”

“I’m so glad you’ve come to visit me.”

Visit?
Daddy was really disoriented. I grasped the doorknob, jiggled it back and forth, and rattled the door until it shook on its hinges. “Just a minute. I have to find a key.” I prayed LouElla hadn’t taken the damn thing with her. I imagined a whole ring of them, tied to her belt with purple ribbon so that she clanked like a jailer whenever she walked. If I couldn’t find a key, the hell with picking the lock. This was an emergency! I would do an Emma Peel and kick-box the door until it splintered away from its hinges.

I threw open the drapes and searched the hallway.
Ta-da!
On a brass cup hook screwed into the chair rail near the door hung a single, old-fashioned key. Sick with relief, I grabbed it, fitted it into the keyhole, and turned.

The tumblers fell into place and the door swung open.

Daddy stood in front of me wearing only his underwear and a broad grin. The deep lines had been erased from his face and he looked rested, better than I had seen him in years. I closed the gap between us in less than a second, grabbed him around the waist, and held on to him tightly. Now that I had him, I wasn’t about to let go. “Thank God I’ve found you!”

Placing his broad hands on my shoulders, Daddy held me at arm’s length and smiled into my face. “I didn’t know I was missing.” His voice was husky, but not from alcohol. Suddenly he blushed, grabbed a thin blanket off the bed, and wrapped it around his waist.

A pitcher of ice water sat on a table. I poured him a glass, then thought better of it. I sniffed the water, thinking it might be drugged. It smelled OK, but to be on the safe side, I dumped it out in the sink and filled the glass from the tap. “Here, Daddy. Drink this.”

While he drank, I stared at him, my mouth at half mast. “We’ve been looking for you since the party. We looked everywhere! The police, too.”

Daddy handed me the half-empty glass, sat on the edge of the bed, and patted the space next to him, indicating I should sit down. “Not everywhere, or you would have found me!” He sounded stronger, more confident. Calm, almost cool. What on earth was going on? I’d read about the Stockholm syndrome, about people like Patty Hearst who ended up identifying with their captors. Maybe that’s what had happened between Daddy and LouElla. I grabbed his hand in both of mine. “How did you get here, Daddy?”

He ran the fingers of his free hand through his short, thick hair. His eyes narrowed in thought. “The last thing I remember clearly is standing in Darlene’s garden after the party.” He closed his eyes as if the scene were playing out on the insides of his eyelids. “I’d had rather a lot to drink and I went out to get some fresh air.” His lids flew open. “Darlene accused me of spoiling her evening. Then there was Darryl and LouElla …” His voice trailed off. “I was pretty low. LouElla took me in hand and talked me into Phoenix House.” Daddy turned sincere brown eyes on me. “I
realize now that I’ve had a drinking problem ever since your mother died, probably before. I should have taken that doctor’s advice in Annapolis, shouldn’t I?”

I nodded.

“Sometimes you have to hit rock bottom before you can start climbing back up. Well, there wasn’t much lower I could go than sprawled in the dirt in Darlene’s garden.”

I was so stunned that it was taking a while for everything to sink in. Garden. LouElla. Phoenix House. What the hell was Phoenix House?

I looked around the room and light dawned. Smooth, off-white walls surrounded us. Cheerful drapes hung at the window. A hospital bed, a dresser, a bedside table on wheels, and a leather chair were the only furniture. A stack of magazines sat next to a CD player on a windowsill. The sink I had just used was tucked away in a corner. Through an open door in a room that might once have been a closet, I saw a toilet and shower stall. Sammy’s hospital room.
This
was Phoenix House.

I was in a hurry to hustle Daddy out of there, but he was in no condition to go anywhere in his underwear. “Where are your clothes?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know; I haven’t really needed them.”

I crossed the room to the dresser and opened the top drawer. Four undershirts and briefs lay inside, neatly folded. Fruit of the Loom, not his usual brand. In the next drawer down were my father’s gray flannel slacks and blue sweater, confirming what I suspected: He’d come here the night he disappeared. In the bottom drawer lay his watch and wallet and his shoes, neatly aligned, with his socks tucked inside. “Come on, Daddy. Get dressed and let’s go home.”

I laid Daddy’s clothes out on the bed, made sure he was steady enough on his feet to get into them, then turned my back and stared out the window while he got dressed. From his window and through the bare winter trees, Daddy would have had a clear view of the courthouse, but not much more. No wonder he was confused about where he was. I wondered if LouElla had kept him sedated.

Not wanting to alarm him, I asked, “So, LouElla’s been taking care of you?”

I heard the sound of a zipper. “She introduced herself at the party as a nurse at Phoenix House. Told me all about the programs they have here.” His voice was muffled by the sweater going on over his head. “When LouElla found me, she said I was practically unconscious. The next thing I know, I wake up here, in the hospital, and LouElla is telling me it’s time I turned myself over to a professional.” Still in his bare feet, he crossed to where I was standing at the window. “I should have done this a long time ago, Hannah. I feel
great!
”

“But, Daddy, she kidnapped you!”

Daddy threw back his head and laughed. “Kidnapped! That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard! I’m here because I
want
to be here.” He sat down on the edge of the bed and motioned for me to sit in the chair. “And LouElla really knows her stuff. She nursed me through withdrawal, gave me something to help with the headaches—God, did I have headaches!—and sat with me until the worst of them were over.” He laid both hands open across his stomach. “And this facility has a wonderful cook!” He grinned. “Who needs the Betty Ford Clinic if you have
Phoenix House?” He stared at a spot on the wall and looked wistful. “Reminded me a lot of your mother’s cooking.”

I started to say something in defense of Ruth, who had been chief-cook-and-bottle-washer in my father’s house for the last eight months. I’m sure he appreciated the effort Ruth put into her cooking, but I knew that vegetarian chili and lentil stew didn’t exactly set his taste buds racing. As if he knew what I was thinking, he said, “Last night I reached a milestone. I had a big, juicy T-bone.”